


Through Glass We Stained (through water we drowned)

by wormhourdeluxe



Category: One Piece
Genre: Anal Sex, Christianity, Crying, Introspection, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Religion, Riding, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Switching, Waterboarding, but like sexy, jus.. jus a little feelin, lmk if i missed any, technically the only two tags i need, the destruction of an innocent bible, the innate homoeroticism of drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21949912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormhourdeluxe/pseuds/wormhourdeluxe
Summary: Stained glass light fractures Marco's form into a hundred shades of blue and gold and all Shanks can think about is shattering him into a thousand more.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Through Glass We Stained (through water we drowned)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irrelevancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/gifts).



> 🎉🎁🎉💦💦

It was easy to give in. Easy to let anything happen, when he knew it, as all things did, happened for a reason; when Marco knew his undoing had been planned from the start. When he could guess his fate just from how Shanks’ gait reverberated through the cathedral. how the echo of a footstep spelled out the inevitable color of Marco’s skin and yet he did not move away. 

(How could he, when this heavenly body moved with such purpose? With burning hands reaching, a star pleading for an orbit.)

Marco’s job was to be selfless. To  _ give. _ To provide all that he could, from the stretch of one hand to the next. If that context asked of him to tilt his head back, to bare his throat, to part his lips around a breathless welcome and brace his hands down where he was pushed then—

Crucified, he knelt. Sacrificed under Shanks’ hands, lips still pressed to the surface of the water in a ragged kiss. “There is nothing to take,” he gasped, tears streaming blessed salt, nose burning through with holy water— “that I do not give freely.” 

Shanks’ hand tightened in his hair. Unyielding as iron. Ripping pain through Marco’s scalp, forcing his back into an arch meant only for prayer. 

_ I wonder what expression he must be making, _ Marco thought, and the image made under him rippled and broke as he was forced back under its surface. Vaguely, he could make out muffled clicks. the rough press of fabric, against the back of his thighs. 

The unmistakable shape of a hand, calloused and brimstone hot, branding itself between his legs. 

_ “Little lamb,” _ Shanks snarled. The words churned hazily through Marco’s head, swirling like a dirty fishbowl. “Is that what you think you are?” Marco’s hands tightened around the stone rim of the font as Shanks leaned his weight into him. Pressing down and down, forcing Marco’s hands to spill white and spotty trying to keep that dulled edge from slicing clean into him. A thin prevention of sliding under his diaphragm, into his lungs as if to cup all the blessings he had breathed in. His right foot slid and he panicked, for a moment, chest heaving— and was left gagging and weak, coughing out his cleansing as Shanks ripped him from his womb. There was nothing sterile, in that touch. Nothing soft, nor gentle— nothing seeking to cradle and yet. 

And yet. 

(A thumb, rough and worked over as the rest of him, and yet it pressed light and delicate to the divet just over Marco’s rabbiting pulse like a kiss.) 

“Lost little lamb,” Shanks crooned, And  _ oh, _ his voice sounded so much clearer, deep and raw, vibrating with the tenor of a choir all centered within Marco’s straining rib cage. “Do you take all that innocence for granted?” 

(That thumb swept, slid. Pet the edge of Marco’s jaw as if he were something forgivable. Condescending, for all that his other fingers bruised, for all that his teeth dug in and his words flayed,)

The weight of a promise, throbbing painfully between them. Marco was almost breathless with the shifting reminder of it. With every little heartbeat, nudged up against heated skin. “What do you think I am,” Shanks asked. Marco could barely  _ think. _ Holy water still spilled down his cheeks, out his parted lips. A thin veil to mask his own diluted depravity. “What do you think I can give you?”

_ Nothing, there is nothing— _

_ I am full of you, as it is. Every breath I take, every push, every pull, every rip of my flesh you swallow in those blackened jowls— _

“We are both just men,” Marco finally wheezed. His legs were starting to shake. The awkward position he was forced into was beginning to pull, low in his back, in his thighs. “Only men.  _ Human, _ under the eyes of God.” 

_ I promise, I promise you this— you are not yet— _

Shanks swelled like a tide, like a second ocean to pull Marco in and swallow him whole, to claw with cold fingers and the whispered promise of absolution, of rebirth, _ of— _

Shanks’ cock finally sank into him, weighted like a burden, and Marco finally breathed around the holy water in his lungs. 

“Even now,” Shanks hissed. His hand crept. Slid down hinted planes and layered contours of Marco’s body, under heavy robes— “Even now you keep trying to  _ save me.” _ His hips snapped forward, jostling a wet cry out of the priest. “How does it feel, to lose your bet? To know that not every man can be—“ a mean swivel, a grind up against something that burst white-hot in Marco’s gut and he sobbed as his hips jolted forward without his consent. 

Burning hot, like coals, like embers. Searing into the curve of Marco’s hip. 

(He hoped it stuck. Hoped it stayed. Hoped Shanks claimed him, marked him,  _ branded _ him as a vessel fit for more than even God’s purpose; hollowed out for hope. He hoped that if he did not burn, he would  _ bruise. _ He wanted to see if Shanks felt lighter if he knew how Marco would layer his hand so gently, slot his fingers into a taken space and paint it blue all over again in the gaps between confessions.) 

Shanks slammed him forward. His teeth buried themselves in the salted nape of Marco’s neck and he bowed with a sharp cry only to inhale a new lungful of holy water. The font banged ominously under the weight of their actions. Deep inside Marco, he could feel Shanks throb. Feel his heartbeat reach inside him, whispering in his most intimate place. Bullying its heft against nerves rubbed raw and aching. 

Shanks ground forward meanly, aiming straight for Marco’s prostate, and in his muffled screaming he  _ choked. _

It was too easy to lose himself. His control, his composure— he was too filled with water to make space for either. Too busy breathing around a blessing to have room for anything other than the tense shivers that wracked up his spine, for the clench of his fingers when Shanks pushed him ever deeper. The effort to hold his breath was beginning to make him dizzy and yet Shanks showed no sign of letting him up, letting him  _ breathe—  _

_ Maybe he forgot, _ Marco thought, a bolt of heat down his spine. The need was building. He wasn’t in an opportune situation to even push himself up— Shanks’ leg hooked around his, yanking cruelly and forcing a scream out of Marco as his balance broke, forcing all of his precarious weight down against Shanks’ hips with a dulled slap of skin and a splash. It was becoming  _ unbearable. _ His chest too stiff, his head too tight—  _ Maybe he forgot he needs to let me up. Maybe he—  _

Shanks yanked him up, up and  _ up _ and Marco gasped and coughed pathetically as he stumbled back, still impaled on that glorious line of heat tearing up through him. His lips felt numb. Holy water dropped off his eyelashes, blurring his vision to blindness. 

_ “Finally,” _ Shanks hissed, poisonously giddy, and the distinct swipe of a tongue pressed searing hot to Marco’s jaw. 

_ Oh, _ he realized,  _ I’m crying. _

“Finally,” Shanks said again. His touch was almost reverent now, for how  _ gently _ it hurt— 

Marco stumbled, blinded and lightheaded, as Shanks spun them around and down. His body followed that touch like a rag doll. The floor of the cathedral was startlingly rough on his knees— rougher, somehow, then it had ever been in years of kneeling. No amount of blinking the remnants of his rebirth out of his eyes was clearing them before Shanks was forcing his cheek down against something. Paper crinkled under Marco’s skin.

“If you care,” Shanks snarled, his fingers so tight Marco felt like he was being scalped under his touch, “then salt the prayers you  _ adore _ so much.” 

Paper ripped and tore. Dampened, weakened under the holy water still rolling in fat tears down his cheeks. Marco’s chest clenched painfully at the feeling of his stubble catching, at the feeling of delicate text destroyed under his careless weight.  _ “The bible,” _ he said, halting, stunned— and only sobbed more damage into the pages when a sharp thrust to his prostate rocked him violently. 

Shanks was unrelenting. There was something almost final, to his touch— drinking in every move, every shift and bruise as if it’d be the last to grace Marco’s skin. 

He leaned in, his lips tickling Marco’s jaw. 

“Were you a virgin?” He whispered. As if to mock the unspoken answer, he ground his hips forward in a mean dance that had Marco’s legs shaking where they parted around his knees. “Just how perfect could someone so  _ filthy _ have been, before now? How  _ innocent,” _ a tongue lathed sloppily over the back of his neck, teeth grazing like a warning. “How pure, how untouched and clean—“ Marco wailed at a rough thrust. He knew—  _ knew _ he was drooling onto the Bible. His lips refused to close, his throat refused to quiet— he couldn’t stop himself nor could he stop the gripping white-hot  _ shame _ of knowing his unworthy self was tainting the Lord’s words, “have I left you lost, _ little lamb?” _

Molten honey and hardened molasses. Marco felt that shame, that guilt, harden and  _ snap. _

Shanks went startlingly easy. Marco threw his head back with enough force to crack an unsuspecting man’s jaw open, enough to toss them both back between the pews in a crumbled mass of limbs and gasping breath and all he could think was how Shanks seemed to expect it. 

“I am no lamb, and you no devil,” Marco snapped, hissed,  _ snarled _ — and Shanks’ eyes went satisfyingly wide when he sank back down onto his cock in a single smooth drop. Marco was sick of playing games. Of making pretenses where there were none. Of smiling and reaching hands with palms open and offered. Of pretending his heart didn’t raise tight in his throat whenever Shanks swirled through the doors like a storm with hinges left squealing; of dark eyes and tight smiles, of indulging a sick man’s fantasy— “and I have  _ never _ needed to  _ save you.” _

(A broken heart bled so differently, from an open wound.)

Shanks made a single, choked noise. He had lost control of his coined Unbecoming, lost whatever script he had been aching to finish. 

Marco could not care less. “I will finish what you started,” he groaned, low and guttural, “I am no muse. This is no setting.” A fair hand rose. Marco slammed it back against the pews with strength enough to shatter. Shanks’ face flushed scarlet down to his clavicles, his bitten off, shocked little whine enough to make Marco’s chest stutter. “I don’t want your poetry. You’ve confessed, and it’s your turn to  _ listen.”  _

“How unfair,” Shanks managed to choke out. “–to ask that of me.” 

_If you knew unfair, you would never have come back. If you knew what you did to me, every time you threw these doors open with an echo enough to be the music of rapture_ — “Shut up,” Marco ordered. Shanks’ jaw clicked shut. The sound of it made something warm and satisfied purr in Marco’s gut, shivering up his hips to his shoulders. He rocked his hips testingly, humming in content at the slick grind against sensitive nerves. “I couldn’t care less what you think is _unfair.”_ _Unfair is to watch. Unfair is to listen. Unfair is to reach and never touch, to long, to yearn and never learn—_

Marco leaned back, spreading himself as open as the space allowed. Arched his back, splayed his thighs easy and open, settled his weight on his hands and just  _ looked _ , “do you think of me so _ lowly, _ to call me perfect?” He asked. 

Shanks’ chest visibly stuttered. Marco watched his Adam’s apple bob, a lifeboat on churning seas. “I—“ his hand reached for Marco and he flinched as if he had only just realized he still had one, as if he only just realized Marco had let him go. _ “I—“ _

Marco curled. Leaned, down and down, and as he swallowed Shanks’ cock whole again he closed lips fractured in a hundred stained-glass golds around shaking fingers. His tongue wrapped messily around the digit. Tasting salt, tracing callouses— Shanks made a dying noise. 

“Human,” Marco murmured, around that touch. He hummed, encouraged Shanks to press. To explore. To rub down against his tongue, to nudge shockingly hesitant knuckles against the roof of a willing mouth.  _ “Human, _ the both of us.” 

_ I have never been a lamb. I have never been lost. This is what we were always meant to be.  _

Shanks’ eyes went suspiciously wet, and Marco reverently focused on laving platitudes against his trapped plea as he began to move again. 

He came  _ quiet. _ Head thrown back, Throat Gilded in gold, Marco watched with interest as a suffocating blue light flickered across Shanks’ lips. Holy water had dried thin tracks down his jaw, pebbling across Shanks’ chest. 

He came with Marco prime and pleased in his lap, happily shuddering as Shanks defiled him in the middle of God’s home. A strained laugh, high and giddy, was all he managed when, toes curling, he came against his own robes. 

When he blinked to, Shanks had pressed the crumpled pages of the destroyed bible to Marco’s own mess. Using the Lord’s beloved words like a stained napkin, wiping away the evidence of a terrible guest to a host, “you’re going to get the seats dirty,” Shanks scolded. It was shallow, more breathless than Marco doubted he intended and nowhere as sincere as it probably should have been. 

“Not a sin to be seen,” Marco retorted. The ruined bible coyly slipped over his front, hiding from Shanks’ intent gaze where he lifted shakily off his cock. “The house of God is as clean as ever.”

A little fire, a little brimstone, back to warm Shanks’ eyes. Marco only grinned back when he shot to his feet, his grip as purposeful as it always was on Marco’s wrist. “Lying is a _ sin,”  _ he hissed, “Father, do you have something to  _ confess?”  _

Marco laughed airily as he wondered, folded into the small space of a confession booth, whether it would really be much of a scandal if someone caught them fucking. 

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays gift-fic to Irrelevancy ;) who opened my repressed gay eyes to christian porn ;) and ALSO to waterboarding ;) 
> 
> Special Thanks To Gay Baby Jail, My Own Damn Server, For The Opportunity To Interrogate Chromi And Irrelevancy Both On Kinks.


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